BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

Evening Star, Issue 11683, 15 February 1902, Page 8

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

‘The Benefactress.’ By the author of 4 Elizabeth and Her German Garden.’ London: Macmillan and Co. Dunedin : J. Braithwadto. A pleasantly-written book that carrion one along nearly to the last chapter with happy smiles, bobbles of laognter, and gentle bints and knocks tit our own little weaknesses and selfishnesses. We are inclined to think that the tragic note struck in the last fifty pages or so is rath sr out of harmony with the balance of the work, and hardly necessary to effect a rounded conclusion. In fact, the latter is not rounded off at. all. We are left in suspense as to how Anna—a charming English girl, who, liaving been left an estate in Germany, seeks to lead 44 th’ better life" by offering to love and board Twelve genteel ladies for nothing—really got rid of those three terrible women she in her young enthusiasm—she disliked being called “young”—had taken into her newly-furnished house. We like Axel but can hardly wonder at a man being arrested as an incediary who is so indiscreet as to tell his neighbors, as he helps put out the flames that, tire consuming bis stables, that the lire is really a good thing for himself, the buildings being so old. In other words, tlie actual occurrence which finally causes Anna to declare her love for Axel is forced, and could have been moefa better evolved from the situation, into which her desire to do good had landed her. Tbe charm of the book, however, consists noi so much in the stoiy as in the bits of character and delightful touches it contains. We have Unde Joochim, who, with the wisdom born of years, tells his niece ; 44 In my youth I too cultivated Bach. Now 1 cultivate pigs. Pigs are better.” And Tmdi, who ‘ 4 enjoyed herself hugely, and even began to have aspirations towards the better life herself, and more than once entered into a serious consideration of tbe advantages that might result from getting rid at one stroke of Bill, her husband, mid Billy ;n#d Tommy, her two sons, and making a fresh start as one of Anna’s twelve.” And the mißionaire bankers daughter, Bibi, “who sat listening with her mouth wide open, an artless way of hers when she was much interested in corjversation, Imt one deplored by those who wished her wen.” Tbe book abounds in such humorous yet kindly toms, not the least attractive of which are to he found in the conversations between the child Letty. Iw governess, and her mamma. Tbe following takes place dnrirjg the journey from Berlin to Anita’s new possession near Stralsnnd—a place, by tbe way, no one had heard about until, after much diligent search, they found it on tlie map:— Miss Leech, always; mindful of her duties, was making- the most of her five hours’ ]ouriev by endeavoring, in a low voice, to clear away the haze that hung in her pupil's mind iciiiid' ihe details of her last, winter's German st udics. “ Don’t you remember anything of Professor Smith’s lectures, Letty?” she inquired. “Why, they were all about, just this part of Germany, and it makes it so much more interesting if one knows what happened :it t!;c different placet;. Stralsnnd, yon know, where wc shall be presently, has had a most t tit Indent and interesting past.” “Has it?" re id ID’tty. “Well. 1 can't help it, Leechy.” “ No, but my clear you should try to recollect something at least of what, you heard ai the lectures. Have yon forgotten the paper you wrote about Wallenstein? ” " I remember 1 did a paper. Beastly hard it. was, too.” “ Oh, Letty, don't say beastly—it really isn't a ladylike word." Why, mamma's always saying it." “ Oh, well, don’t you know what Wallenstein said when ho was besieging Stralsnnd awl found it such a difficult task?” " f suppose he said, too, that it was beastly hard.” “ Oh, Letty —it was sometlung about chains. Now do you remember? “Chains?” repeated Letty, looking bored. * Do you know. I.eechy ? ” “Yes, I still remember that, though I confess that I have forgotten the greater part of what I heard.” “ Then what did yon ask mo for, when you know I don't know P What did he say about chains? ” “He said that he'd take the city it it were, riveted to Heaven with chair* of iron,” said Miss Leech, dramatically. “ What a goat.” 4 Oh, hush—don’t say those horrible words. 'Whore do you learn them? Not from me, certainly not from me,” said Miss Leech, distressed. She had a profound horror of slang, and was bewildered by the way iu which these weeds of rhetoric sprang up on all occasions in Lctty’s speech. ** Well, and was it ? ” “Was it what, my dear?” “Chained to Heaven?” “The city? Why, how cun a city be chained to Heaven, Letty P ” “Then what did he say it for? ” “He was using a metaphor.” “ Oh,” said Letty. who did not know what a metaphor was. but supposed it most be something used in sieges, and preferred not to inquire too closely. 44 He was obliged to retire.” stud Miss Leech, “leaving enormous numbers of slain on the field.” “ Poor beasts! I say, Leechy.” she whispered, " don’t lets bother about history now. Go on with Mr Jessup, You’d got where he called you Amy for the first time.” ******* "We can’t see much of Stralsnnd,” said Anna, trying to peep round the hood at the old town across the lakes separating it from the mainland. “ It’s a very laistcrical town,” observed Susie, who hod happened to notice, as she idly turned over the pages of her Baedeker o;i the way down, that there was tv long a f scri ption of it with dates. “ As. of course, you know,” she added, turning sharply to her daughter. , . .. “Bather,” said Letty. “Wallenstein sard he’d take it if it were chained to Heaven, and when he found it wasn’t he was frightfully sick, and wart away and left them all m tlui fields.” Miss Leech, who was on the little seat, struggling to defend herself from the fury of the elements with an umbrella, looked anxious, but Suae only said; “I’m glad you remember what you’ve been taught. To which Letty, who was in great spirits, and thought this drive in the wet huge fun, again replied heartily: 14 Father,” and her mother congratulated herself on having done the rribt thing in bringing her to Germany, home of erudition and j rotundity, already evidently beginning to do its work. Tbe authoress knows Germany well, although her pictures of domestic ■Mid social life do not leave ns greatly enamored, but rather raise a slight feeling of pity that Anna should be called upon to *pend her days there.

‘St. Nazarins.’ By A. C. Parquharson. London: Macmillan and Co, Gunedin : Whitcam.be and Tombs,

Although the above is not likely to appeal to that large circle which prefers its literature to be of the “hot and .strong’’ order, it is a book above the level of much that hits been poared out upon au indifferent public during the past year. The actual plot —if so pregnant a terra may be applied to so slight a presentment—is neither original nor peculiarly interesting. 1; has done sendee before, and will doubtless be called upon to do service again. Nor is this to be wondered at. The situations in which any individual or individuals ron be placed and the manner in which they can be described are limited, and in the course of the world’s history, as chronicled by its novelists and story-tellers, they have, we imagine, been pretty well exhausted. The modem narrator can only hope to reclothe old facts in new thoughts, and the measure of his ability to do this, and make of his characters living entities, is- the measure of his success in his art. ‘ St. Nazarius ’ is a retelling of the many century-old theme of the suppression of self—a subject which possesses peculiar attractions for numbere of readers as well ;ii writers —and the consequent struggle, mental and moral, through which all who thus suffer must pass. Mr Farquharson has laid the scene of his narrative we hardly know where, and the time we hardly know when. But we imagine the latter is’meant to be. in the nineteenth century, and the former either in Germany, or Austria, or Russia. These things, ’however, matter little. Two male cousins, trained from childhood together, are passionately attached to each other. Tire one is meant to be a priest, the other is a bom musician. The former, to the horror of the latter, becomes the intimate friend of a pure, highborn, talented maiden, and the musician's distress at his brother’s innocent friendship is not cured until he himself has met the lady. Then, of coarse, he falls hopelessly

in love -with her—hopeless, that is, until he discovers the affection between Humphrey and Irene is friendship, and nothing more. Then Humphrey, on the eve of his cousin’s wedding, discovers .that his own friendship was very much akin to love, and leaves hastily for Rome, there to serve a ten-years-’ novitiate prior to taking the final step. But human misery again calls him back to the world, and his mental and spiritual being again have to pass through the fiery furnace and bitter agony ere, he comes forth purified and content. _ The charm of the nook—although it wearies at times, and lacks that touch of normal manhood and womanhood that sets the blood pulsing—is undeniable. There is a glamor, an unreality, and refinement about it that are beyond the common, whilst its thoughts and the language in which they are clothed are rnimeasarajfiy removed from the empty vaporings and careless chatter of a good deal of contemporary work. ’We do not anticipate a big demand for ‘ St. Nazarius, but it will repay perusal.

‘A Woman Alone.’ etc. By Mrs W. tv. Clifford. Ixmdon: Methuen and Co. Dunedin : Whit combe and Tombs. Mrs Clifford s proem volume is along those orthodox lines which lead us into high society and frivol. Why authors conn'd pet a wav from the drawing rooms and receptions, to say nothing about the individual:- who, alter all is said and done, constitute but a very small portion of our v.-.lid, it is difficult to say. Perhaps it - s that the inherent snobbishness of our nature —especially English nature, if Mr LaInitcliere may be accepted as an authority --that causes ns to dangle at the heels and skirts of the wealthy and great. Anyway, Airs Clifford - * ‘Woman Alone’ is the story i f i beautiful and accomplished Austrian Indy, who, though passionately attached to her husband, wanted him to mix in and dually to lend “ tlie world.” The husband, we are afraid, is very much of a cad. We caii sympathise with his refusal to a-ssoci-ii'e with the editors, actors (i.e.. men who " tar a dress’satit and walk through a society playl, (>oe!s, novelists, under-sec ro-te-ws, Cabinet Ministers, lords, and fools who gabble m his wife's drawing room, but nothing'can txettse his brutal disregard tor her desires. She is as warm as a loving woman should be; he is simply an a, imated iceberg, whose frigidity nothing I: - man could thaw. Ihe inevitable disensues. The mua goes on a four years’ trip to Timhuctoo, 'ihibet. and iVi'ts; the woman wears her heart out in “society” and the “ world.” We ate, however, spired the humiliation of seeing nei take the unfortunate misanthrope back, though she is more rhan willing to do so. .Mrs Clifford somewhat clumsily gets out of her dilemma by introducing one whose, fiat is final. I here is nothing particularly interesting in die story, and the style w coo artificial to a] peal strongly to the reader, -here is a straining after effect both ,-n matter and words, which, ns die author does not appear to be telling a store for the simple sake of telling it, leaves ns dissatisfied and wondering what she is driving at. ihe two others are much upon the same lines—misajjsfymp, and too far removed rom the normal to awaken intelligent interete, ‘The Wooing of t; rk -y Fyes,’ etc. By Riccardo Stephens. 'London: John Murray. Dunedin: Wliitcombe and Tombs. Mr Stephens has adopted u somewhat uncommon style of narrative. Half his leading story is told in the form of a cnary, and then, as though the effort were 100 munit, he drops into the. ordinary first person and says what ho has to say just iikf l lift normal run of novelists. There may he. reasons lor this division of labor, but they are ix»t apparent to the naked nor is there anything in the diary portion above the level of anybody else’s diary. It is poorly written, tedious, and uninteresting. A young man in left an estate through the opportuiiO death of an unknown cousin: ho meets (as they all meet) a young lady whilst wandering about the grounds, they fall in love, difficulties arise, the dead cousin comes to life again, his Lite is mixed, up with that of “ grey eyes.” and then there is—all in. a lump—a shipwreck, a rescue, a plague of rats, a walk in the garden in the middle of a storm, a struggle, a catastrophe, a sudden sweeping darkness, etc., etc., etc. These teles doubtless have their uses in the world of literature, although we have not discovered their exact location. We know that one novel differeth from- another novel in folly as in glory, but we really think that the intelligent men and women who do these tilings would be better employed at honest work.